Ep. 9 — The Theater That Roots Out the Fake (4)
— Entered the National Theater that Roots Out the Fake.
— Discard everything except clothing, shoes, smartwatch, and in-ear device.
— Conceal your affiliation with the Bureau at all costs.
— This Special Zone has been seized by Contaminated Persons.
The curtain on the stage rose.
Before I could even get my bearings, a panicked voice rang out from a row of seats some distance away.
"Wh-what the hell! Where am I?"
Don't — if you make noise here—!
And sure enough.
Pop- pop- pop-!
A blinding pin spotlight locked onto the man who'd shouted.
"Agh! Turn it off!"
Caught in the light like an escaped prisoner, he screamed.
But then.
Thwack—!
The commotion cut off abruptly, along with an arrow that came flying from somewhere unseen.
Thud.
I clapped a hand over my mouth as the man crumpled without a sound.
The seats blocked my view, so I couldn't see his final moments.
The person seated closer to him, however, was not so fortunate.
"Huh...? Ugh, ughaaagh!"
The spotlight swung again, and the same thing played out a second time.
Thwack—!
Another bolt — more precisely, a crossbow bolt — punched straight through a human body.
Just like that, two people were dead.
Afterward, the theater's interior fell utterly silent, like a graveyard of mice.
In that suffocating hush, I found it.
A brochure tucked into the seat beside mine — deceptively ordinary-looking, like any performance flyer, except for the ominous warning laid out inside it.
The brochure was a rulebook the Bureau had stocked in advance — the kind of thing all too easy to overlook in a situation this urgent.
Had I come into this zone knowing nothing, I probably would have leapt out of my seat in a panic. No — even knowing, I could barely keep my head straight.
And what was that about the zone being seized by Contaminated Persons? The explanation was far too thin. What was I supposed to do?
I fingered the in-ear device in my pocket for a moment. Did taking a call on earphones mid-performance count as a breach of etiquette? Obviously it did. Maybe if no sound leaked out it would be fine — but that was nothing more than wishful thinking on my part.
Damn it. I'd gamble on that no longer.
Cha Si-eon would have told me to put the in-ear in first, if communication were possible. I gave up on a pointless gamble and surveyed the seating.
Two people were already dead, but there were a few more souls in the house. Five of us, including me. None of the others moved a muscle — whether from terror, or because they'd found and read the rulebook, I couldn't tell.
And for all I knew, one of them might be a Contaminated Person.
My mouth had gone dry in more ways than one when—
BOOM- boom- boom-!
With thunderous drums, the performance began.
A great wheel descended from above the stage, strange creatures clinging to its rim: a white human, a crimson lion, a black ox, and a bluish bird. For some reason, all of them bore wings. Once the Four Living Creatures set the wheel down at center stage, a majestic orchestral performance began.
Then something viscous and sludge-like gushed up from the floorboards. It became a sun, became mountains, became trees, filling the stage — and then it took on human shape and began walking on its own. It was like a clay-animated Genesis.
As the human figures multiplied across the stage, the white human among the Four Living Creatures watching from behind the wheel waved an arm. Following that gesture, the humans dancing every which way split to either side. The crimson lion roared next — the divided humans hurled themselves at one another, and embers of fire rained from the sky.
What is this? Are they fighting?
The orchestral score turned bitter and desperate, as if truly depicting a war. And for me, it was an opening.
Forcing myself to keep my eyes on the chaotic spectacle, I unzipped my vest, and timing the swelling orchestra, I lowered it to the floor.
Scritch-
It made a bit of noise, but the music was loud enough to bury it. I gauged my timing once more, then, matching the rising drums, kicked the vest as hard as I could with my foot.
Ssshraaaak- thud-!
The Bureau vest slid sideways some three meters before dropping neatly beneath the seat in front of me. Would that do it? Whether it did or not, this was the best I could manage right now.
I left the outcome to fate and turned my eyes back to the stage.
The stage that had been green with mountains and fields was now burning a furious red. Then the black ox swung its horned head, and the humans locked in combat amid the fiery hell froze solid — and began to wither where they stood, like bare branches. Drained of vigor, they could fight no longer. Above them soared the pale blue-white bird, and at one sickly beat of its wings, the humans all crumbled to dust.
This performance, unexpectedly, had a proper story arc — one I'd never read about in the rulebooks back at the Bureau. I couldn't make sense of it, but there was nothing especially horrifying on display, so I reckoned I'd be fine. If all it showed was this, I could hold out easily enough.
The real question was how long this performance would run. The maximum was 777 minutes — meaning, at worst, thirteen hours and fifty-seven minutes of sitting still. Daunting just to think about, but framed as a matter of life and death, it wasn't beyond doing. With that thought, I kept watching.
Once the humans had utterly collapsed, white flowers bloomed over the ruins. White roses. The roses bloomed thick and dense enough to fill the entire stage, then shed their petals one by one, which lifted and drifted upward. The white petals gathered at the center of the stage and formed a human shape again — this time a single figure, floating in midair, its presence solemn and holy.
By this point I had a rough idea of the play's theme: Genesis, the fall of mankind, and the descent of a messiah. A deeply classical subject. So was that white figure a Christ on the cross?
I found myself analyzing the performance without meaning to. But was it just my imagination? The face of the figure I'd assumed was Jesus looked strangely familiar. Why? Where had I seen that face before—
"...!"
The moment I recognized the face, my heart plummeted. And in the next breath, I understood: that was no crucified savior of any kind. What they'd hung in the air was never a cross at all. It was a rope, wound around the neck.
At that familiar figure, the world seemed to stop.
No way.
No way.
No way no way no way.
My vision blurred and my breath caught. Without knowing what I was doing, I stared and stared at the hanging figure. And then—
A small flicker caught my eye. I turned my head absently and found a message that had arrived on my smartwatch.
SIT DOWN!!
Sit down?
Reading the message, I flinched. At some point, I had been half-risen from my seat. When had I moved? Ice flooded through my gut, and I dropped back into my chair in a hurry. I wiped my face absently and realized it was soaked with cold sweat.
Damn it, what is this?
In rare cases, the performance may depict your past or your trauma.
If you are swept up in emotion at that moment, you will be drawn to the stage.
The brochure's words came back to me. Could this be it? Then that figure on the stage right now...
Don't look at the stage. Close your eyes.
Perhaps sensing my confusion, a new message arrived, and I did as I was told, squeezing my eyes shut.
With my eyes closed, the music grew sharper. It sounded absurdly holy — as if it were calling to me. I clutched the armrest of my seat to keep from being drawn into it.
How long did I hold out? Thirty minutes? An hour? Somewhere in that dreadful darkness, I felt the music fade. Was it over now? When the music stopped entirely, I slowly opened my eyes — and met a gaze.
The familiar face, mere inches from mine.
"Hnngh...!"
The figure had stretched its neck out from the stage, its face pressed close to mine — a distance of less than a handspan. I recoiled in horror.
Clunk-!
But the seatback blocked me, and there was nowhere left to retreat. Just as the scream trapped in my mouth threatened to burst out—
Rrrssh—
The figure scattered into ash, and darkness fell. ...It's really over now, right?
I was still gasping in the blackout when—
BANG-!
The side door of the theater suddenly swung open. What came in after was... a teddy bear?
I doubted my own eyes. It was one of those light-brown, thoroughly adorable bear mascot costumes you'd see at an amusement park — except only the head was a bear, and the body was just a person. What's with that level of half-assery? The costume even came with jeans and a black windbreaker — a sloppy, slapdash getup.
What is that now? Person? Monster? As far as I knew, no such entity existed in this National Theater. So it was a person in a costume, then? Abnormalities kept piling up so fast I couldn't be sure of anything.
The teddy bear, appearing out of nowhere, addressed the audience:
"Anyone still alive?"
No one answered the bear's question. So the bear piped up again, briskly:
"I'm gonna count to ten now! Everybody come out!"
As if that would work...
The seated audience only exchanged glances and didn't budge an inch. I too stayed put, watching everyone else for a cue.
"One, two... Agh, why won't anyone come out?"
The bear, who'd been counting at its own pace, planted its hands on its hips. Then it heaved a big sigh and gestured toward the door — and five or six more men filed in. They had their faces covered too, like the bear. But their masks were too savage for even the seediest amusement park to stock: skull-shaped half-face masks, nearly gas masks in appearance. Their clothes were as sloppy as the bear's, and in their hands they carried sleek three-section staffs.
Looking at that outright mob of a scene, I sensed it anew: this goddamn nightmare was only just beginning.